I had opened my black duffel bag, which didn’t contain weapons, money or some uniform like I had always thought they had. At least, that was how they appeared whenever I had seen the other kids carrying them over their shoulders. I had spent my afternoons as a young girl exploring the park in the centre of the town, far from the louder crowds of the other children. From one particular tree in that park (one I affectionately called “Oh” after its oak wood) a brave child like myself could spot the steps into the Town Hall, which is where everybody went to receive their bag upon reaching the right age. 16 had seemed so far away back then; for me right now, 16 happened yesterday, as had the acquisition of my own bag. My heart had stopped upon seeing the name label, “Willow Rivers”. It was so unreal.
My father had sat me down a few weeks before my thirteenth birthday, and I can still remember how solemn he looked. He was never the happiest guy, don’t think that he was, yet he was quiet even for him. I asked him what was up with him, and he leaned forward and told me that my mother had been killed in the street by a gang of kids in my class. It sounds so cold and clinical when I say it like that, yet that was how he said it to me. Just like that, half of my close family was taken from me. You may have expected a stronger reaction to the news that thirteen year-old kids were killing grown-ups; you’re used to a more civilised world I suppose. Around here, there are no orphanages or homes for children whose parents weren’t around for whatever reason. There aren’t nearly enough resources around for charity to exist on that scale. No, the governors decided to let the children roam free in the streets instead, and as a result there’s a huge issue with gangs like the one that killed my mother. They like to make themselves known to the higher-ups with statements like that, so I’d heard of so many by then that I wasn’t even surprised that it had happened. Mrs. Hardy from down the river was impaled on her own broken fence post. Mr. Abrams fell into the lake after the kids broke the rudder on his boathouse and led him into a rougher section of the water. Oh, I was distressed that I had lost my mother, of course. I just wasn’t surprised. The next day, I heard that Briony’s brother Tobin had received his bag, and had to leave town. I didn’t know why, but I never spoke to either of them, so I never asked.
So, I received my sixteenth birthday present from my father (he gave me a slightly scratched silver necklace of a raindrop; it was sweeter than it sounds) and he offered to walk me to the town hall. I’d been awake all night dreading that question, however I accepted his offer simply because I didn’t think I’d go through with it on my own. The large neon sign of the town loomed over the door to the hall. “Stonewall”. Not terribly creative, yet it was true – we were the only settlement I’d ever heard of with a stone wall. I was ushered inside by my father, and the empty grin of Governor Steele met my fixed stare. His voice sounded scratchy, and the dust from the worn interior of the hall clogged my throat. My father didn’t mind either of these; he merely greeted the rasping man and told him I was sixteen. Steele knew already, of course; he’d been keenly interested in my quiet isolation from the other children. I recalled some time ago, he told my mother to take more actions to get me to talk to others for fears I’d wind up on the streets with the gangs. If mothers worry too much, this guy is a new level. When I coloured my hair purple after my mother found some hair colour, he became really concerned. In case you can’t tell, the bag policy is his idea and method of controlling the amounts of idle people around Stonewall.
Anyway, Steele invited me into a storage room to get my bag. I’m fairly sure I blanked after this point; next thing I know, I’m standing outside the town hall with my duffel bag. It was actually lighter than I expected, yet there was a strangely shaped object inside. I snapped out of my trance when my father said he would walk me back home. I collapsed into my bed and woke up the next morning. After that, I stared at the bag for a while before opening it. That’s when I saw the strange object.
It had a glowing, green screen, with a map to the arid desert north of the town. I found a note inside, presumably written by Steele or his pompous secretary Dolores. I was to relocate to the desert and set up a camp. Then, I was to scout around the area (a radius of 20 miles initially) for new sources of supplies for the next 4 years. I was not to contact my father, or any of the town’s people for that matter, unless I had found something. A tent, bedroll and binoculars were also in the bag, as well as a small pocket knife. Steele’s untidy signature ended the note; doesn’t prove he wrote it, given Dolores had faked the signature before. I folded up the letter and went into the main room, where my father had left me alone in the house. And then I acted in the most hysterical way I had ever acted.
I ransacked the cupboards, gathering what little food I figured my father could live without. I filled up two bottles at the pump just across the river, and folded all of my clothes so they fit inside the bag with my name on it. I threw it over my shoulder, and closed the door to my home behind me. I walked out of the town, and went to walk north as if controlled by a greater power. The corner of my eye spotted trees to the south. Burnt and dying, but trees. I then acted in the second most hysterical way ever, and jogged south. An hour passed, and the ground became dusty with dirt. I scanned the horizon with my binoculars, and found Oh’s kind five minutes due south-east. I set up my tent underneath Oh Two, a much lesser tree than Oh but it had marks in its bark that reminded me of Oh. I lay on my bedroll and thought of the river through the town.
When the air became warmer, my map device beeped at me. Four twenty-two in the morning. My eyes couldn’t focus. My head ached. Leaves blew past my tent. The heat was tolerable, yet the glow from the north wasn’t. Orange and red colours lit up the horizon. Green entered the mix suddenly – my map lost connection to its server. Then it clicked in my mind.
The run back seemed quicker than the journey down. The bottles rattled in my bag. My binoculars revealed the truth. The glow had died down, but smoke drifted in great amounts. The stone wall remained in place, yet the buildings had disappeared. My black boots became grey with ash as I reached the gate. The river to my left ran black with charred wood and stained metal. None of the ruins were feasible to repair. None of the streets held the buzz of happy people or the violence of the gangs. I don’t know what happened, no. I searched for my home, or at least remains that looked like my home. I couldn’t tell it apart from the rest of the ash. Everything had been consumed by the fire. I thought back to Briony, and how upset she was that Tobin had left. Then I thought how lucky Tobin and I were that we just happened to be old enough to leave.
That night, I sat awake in my tent. I was now without a purpose. I cradled the obsolete map in my hands, and occupied my mind with empty thoughts.
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